In Vino Veritas
by Leven Kemal
Summary: It's a rather large step from “I don't like him” to “I need this man to tear all my clothes off.” My take on how Zoe and Wash got from point A to point B.
1. In Wine

In Vino Veritas

_You know and I know Joss Whedon owns these characters._

Part One: In Wine...

* * *

Wash assumed everything had gone all right with the job. No one had called in air support. No one had shrieked at him to take off _Now, now, now_! No one dirtside tried to land-lock 'em. No one sent them an obscene wave, promising eternal retribution. Zoe's "We're on, pilot. Take us out," over the comm had been perhaps a tad more terse than usual. Hard to say, though. Exact degrees of terseness could be difficult to assess, without accompanying clues from body language and facial expressions. 'Course Zoe's communication style in those areas were far along the lines of terse as well. But he'd developed a keen sense for reading the tiny – yet highly significant – variations in her terseness. He knew, for example, the precise angle to the lift of her left eyebrow which meant, "You are a bug." And how, if it lifted three millimeters higher, it meant, "I am going to squash you now." Amazing, really, and wonderful, truly wonderful, the volumes spoken by the arch of one elegant brow. 

So, while the terseness gave him an excuse to ponder upon Zoe's eyebrow (not that he actually needed an excuse), he discerned in it no cause for alarm or need for speed. Ergo, he'd eased 'em unhurriedly off-planet, nice and smooth, and pointed them toward their next port of call. Out of atmo, he shifted from the pods to the pulse engine with a minimal use of the expensive hydrogen fuel. Then, satisfied, he'd set the boat on autopilot, and leaned back in his seat to refresh his soul with the sight of the brilliant stars soaring through the infinite Black. That took about five minutes. His was a simple soul.

Then the dinosaurs realized they needed new grazing and hunting territory, so they began organizing themselves for the grand trek to new vistas. (Little did they know what terrors and joys awaited them upon their journey.) This took some time, as the T-Rex was feeling particularly fractious. Wash kept one ear toward the open bridge hatch. The crew knew, of course, about the dinosaurs. He'd placed them prominently on and around the helm within a week of signing on, eliciting a few raised eyebrows. But most folks, out here, far away from the Core, allowed for, and indeed, seemed gratified by a bit of eccentricity in their pilots. Was kinda expected, actually, although every vacuum jockey was supposed to have his or her own individual quirk. Not that the dinosaurs were a quirk. No, sir, they were his companions. (Though not in the big C companion sense, of course, 'cause that would be too kinky, even for him.) Bulwarks against boredom. Vehicles for venting the various vicissitudes of the vacuum. Et cetera. Thing was, while he made no attempt to hide the dinos themselves, arranging them in tasteful displays around the bridge, he thought the crew needed a little more time to learn that, yes, he was indeed a serious pilot. Once he had their trust in that regard, he'd let it be known that his friends were much more than mere ornamentation. That they had personalities, and lives and concerns of their very own.

He leaned back in his chair, the T-Rex and the stegosaurus held limply in his lap, gaze focused out again into the Black, its endless expanse giving him a canvas to splash his thoughts across. To be brutally honest with himself, the only member of the crew whose trust he desperately desired loathed him. Mal, he knew, liked him well enough, and trusted him. As a pilot, at any rate, if not as a person. And Wash figured there was only one person in the entire 'verse on the captain's "Trust Implicitly" list, so he was okay with that. Little Kaylee, well, she came trusting. You had to actively work to lose her trust, and you'd have to be the kinda _huen dahn_ who drop-kicked puppies to do that. And Jayne? No, didn't suppose their newly hired muscle trusted him. Didn't suppose the guy trusted anyone, 'cept maybe his mama, his guns and cool, cashy money. So, it was no skin off Wash's nose, not to be an article of Jayne Cobb's high regard. Unless, of course the man-ape actually took skin off his nose, which, on contemplation, could not be ruled out as an unlikely future event.

But, Zoe. Zoe, Zoe, Zoe. Meant "life" in the ancient Earth-That-Was Greek. He'd looked it up on the Cortex. And she had been his life, the past six months, her and _Serenity_. Truthfully, while he was ecstatic to get his hands on and into an Aught Three K64, he had decided he was going to accept this berth the very second a gorgeous, deadly, self-contained woman had whirled him 'round, shoved him face first against the air lock wall, and run her hands all over – and he meant _all_ over – his body. 'Course, she'd been frisking him, not feeling him up, but the old hind-brain didn't know that. It had imprinted irrevocably on the firm, brisk expertize of those hands. Meanwhile, his mind picked up the challenge of breaching that walled off self-sufficiency to rouse the passion he knew must burn at her center.

And his heart? He sighed, lifting the hand with the T-Rex in it to vigorously rub his forehead with the back of his wrist. He worried sometimes that the reason he persisted in his pursuit was that, maybe, deep down, he was a closet masochist. That some dark little corner of his psyche actually got off on being cut down and rejected on a daily basis. But, whenever he angsted over this for too long, he eventually found himself snickering at the thought that he actually _had_ any dark little corners of any kind in his very, very simple psyche.

No, the reason why he couldn't give up the idea of winning Zoe over was because he _wanted_ her. Or, more correctly, wanted _her_. _All_ of him wanted _all_ of her. Not just her body, see, though, _ai ya_, he could make himself agonizingly hard just thinking about her chin. _Lao tyen yeh_, it was a gorgeous chin, but to sport wood thinkin' about it? Not his usual, um, fixation. Not a reaction he'd had to woman, man, nor even beast, ever, in all his days.

No. Fact was, though there were areas of any person's body he tended to appreciate more than others, Zoe, the whole of Zoe, riveted his attention in an amazing, almost painful, manner. The body counted, oh yes it did, 'cause he was just a guy, not some sort of elevated being. But it was the person _in_ the body that he wanted to touch, to reach, to please, to... to love, gorramit. Yep, he bet even if Zoe were old and gray, she would have him completely wrapped around his own drive axis. Heck, he even had fantasies – long, slow, devastatingly erotic fantasies – about them being old and gray together.

Well. These were clearly not her fantasies. Her fantasies probably involved air-locks and vacuum and bloody foam spewing from his mouth, nose, and even ears and other orifices. He'd tried to haul back on what he figured irritated her most, tried to keep his mouth from running with the thoughts skipping merrily through his brain. Had sacrificed the mustache, as long as it had taken him, as fair as he was, to produce a lip-ferret of note, to the cause. But there was only so much he could give up and change about himself, only so much he could hold back, before pinching off who he _was_, and start living a lie. And then, what? If Zoe didn't want _him_, just for himself, well, what was the point? He knew he wasn't smart enough or strong enough to maintain a mask that would engage and impress her for any length of time.

"Rrr," he growled manfully, wagging the T-Rex at the stegosaurus. That dinosaur, wise in the ways of its kind, sighed and replied, "Yeah, right." Wash nodded, acknowledging the assessment of his character, and placed his companions carefully in their places, for the march toward their future, as uncertain as it was.

Often, just after lifting off, the captain would come up, make sure they were headed in the right direction, ask captainy questions, maybe chat a bit about the job, or at least let him know if he was getting paid or not. Looked like this wasn't going to be one of those times, though, as almost an hour had gone by, the dinos were organized, and Mal hadn't come up yet. Maybe the cargo needed a little extra sorting out, keeping him and the others busy. He hadn't yet heard any footsteps in the corridor aft, or any bunk hatches hissing open and closed. They'd had dinner early that day, just before Zoe, Mal and Jayne had gone out to wrap up business in port, and now, hours later, he found he wanted a nosh, tea and maybe one of those fresh rolls Kaylee'd picked up in the market this afternoon. Hopefully Jayne hadn't scarfed them all. He rechecked all their nav readings, made sure all the power, life-support, et cetera gauges shone green, admonished Rex to behave, then wandered down to the galley.

When he reached the steps going down from the corridor, he paused a moment, eyes widening a bit as he tried to make sense of the scene before him. Apparently Mal, Zoe and Jayne were _not_ sorting out cargo, 'cause they were all three of them in the galley. The captain sat at his usual spot at the head of the table, and Zoe sat at hers, at his left hand. Both of them were silent, Mal staring down at the half-full glass in his hand. Zoe, too, had a half-full glass, but her heavy lidded gaze rested on her captain, not her drink. On the table in front of them was a two liter bottle of what Wash recognized as Kaylee's engine "wine." The new gunman, Jayne, was not at the table. He stood in the kitchen, on the other side of the counter, leaning against it. He had a smaller bottle, of what he called his "sippin' whiskey," in front of him. (Though how the guy could stand sipping it was beyond Wash, 'cause the one time he'd gotten close enough to get a whiff of it, it about seared away all the hair in his nostrils.) Jayne flicked a glance at Wash as he entered the room, but quickly turned his attention back to the captain and first mate, lifting a shot glass and tossing back a drink of his own as he did so. The others took no notice of Wash whatsoever.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, teeth clicking together. No one looked particularly chatty, or particularly patient, so he made his way silently into the kitchen, keeping a concerned eye on the pair at the table. Quietly, he put the water on to boil and, maneuvering around the large man taking up much of the kitchen space, collected his favorite mug, a tea ball, and the tin of loose tea leaves. As he puttered, he shot frequent glances at the silent, near immobile Mal and Zoe. About the only moving around they did was lifting one hand to bring a glass to their lips, or, once, the captain poured them both refills. In the six months he'd been on, Wash had never seen them like this before, working with a grim efficiency to dissolve as many brain cells as they could in the shortest possible time. Zoe, though she was knocking back her fair share, as usual seemed to be serving in some kind of support role, given the way she was focused on her captain. _His_ focus seemed fixed on either the glass in his hand, or the bottle, as he poured from it.

Wash certainly wasn't going to glean what was up from all the merry chatter coming from the table, so he figured he'd have to bite the bullet and ask Jayne. Who might or might not say, with or without a pointed sneer or two. Jayne had made it clear, in the month that he'd been on, that he didn't like him any more than Zoe did. But Wash didn't care, 'cause he didn't have a huge man-crush on Jayne.

"So, what's the deal?" Wash murmured to the gunman, head down, eyes on his tea makings.

Jayne stared at him, pale eyed, a moment, then turned, so his back was to the table, leaning his muscular haunches against the counter. He lifted his glass to his lips, but didn't drink. "Met an ol' army buddy o' theirs in town," he said softly. "'S in a bad way."

Wash made gentle inquisitive noises, encouraging further revelations.

"Gassed, see, when she was holed up in some caves in th' War. Did somethin' t' her nerves. Her brain." Now he did take a drink, grimacing, maybe at the bite of the alcohol. "Stuck inna chair now, all twisty an' twitchin' an' gabblin'. Her kid brother was our contact." He tossed back the last of the amber liquid in his glass, then shoved away from the counter, going to the sink to rinse his glass.

As he put the glass and bottle away in his locker, Wash asked, under the rattle, "Where's Kaylee?"

The gunman shot a glance toward the kitchen table, then leaned down to mutter in his ear, the sharp scent of the liquor on his breath stinging Wash's nose and eyes. "Cap barked at her comin' on board, 'n' she commenced t' bawlin' 'n' run off. Reckon she's in th' engine room." He straightened, sneering. "'Vise y' t' steer clear, li'l man, 'r he'll have you blubbin' too." Stretching, he announced, "'M fer bed."

Wash watched the man saunter off, then reached out hastily to catch the kettle before it let out its piercing whistle. Pouring the steaming water over his tea leaves, he contemplated his options. Just two, really. Number one, the smart one: brew his tea, grab a bun, and head on back to the bridge. Number two, the one with potentially painful ramifications: join Mal and Zoe at the table.

He knew what he was looking at. A guy didn't grow up, first, on the planet he'd grown up on, and then, to be a pilot, especially out here, away from the Core, flying what could be deathtraps, without losing family, friends, and acquaintances along the way. His dad had died when Wash was thirteen, from lung cancer. At eighteen, in flight school, he'd watched a girl he'd just started kissing tumble her craft down the runway in a cartwheeling ball of flame. During the War, he'd lost friends he'd made in flight school, on both sides of the conflict, Alliance and Independent. So, he knew what he was looking at. A wake, although the woman might not actually have stopped breathing yet. A wake with the mourning and the booze, but without the corpse or, more importantly, without the celebration of the life the dead had led. Her stories. Their memories.

And while he felt for the buddy the Alliance had mutilated in one of the worst possible ways, he really did, his concern was for this nascent crew Reynolds was gathering around the core of himself and Zoe. So, while Wash knew he wasn't particularly adroit in the social skills department, he figured, maybe, he could get at least get Mal to talking (Zoe? Ha!), and maybe bleeding off some of this grief. 'Cause one thing he did know, and that was verbal venting.

He shoved his sleeves half way up his forearms, pulled the tea ball out of his mug, emptied into the trash, rinsed it and hung it in the dish drainer to dry. Then, just a tad uncertain as to his own wisdom, he wandered over to the kitchen table.

"Hey," he said quietly, as he sat down. He chose his seat carefully, across from Zoe, but not directly across, and leaving the chair at the corner between him and the captain. Hopefully, it would seem like while, yes, he was joining them, he wasn't trying to crowd his way into a private party. Which, actually, he was, but anyway. Mal didn't lift his head, but Zoe met his eyes with a flat, unwelcoming gaze. Neither of them responded to his greeting.

He took a sip of tea, then put his mug on the table, signaling that one unfriendly look wasn't about to chase him off. "Landfall go okay?"

Silence.

He persisted. "Jayne says you met an old army buddy in port."

Zoe's glare became even icier, but, after six months on the receiving end of said glare, Wash figured he had a little anti-freeze percolating through his veins at this point. If she reached for a weapon, he'd shut up and go, real quick, but 'til then, he was probably safe from bodily harm.

"What's his name?" he inquired mildly, deliberately getting the gender wrong, 'cause he'd found most folks couldn't leave that particular mistake alone, and would say something to correct it. And it worked, 'cause Mal looked up out of his glass, to meet Wash's eyes.

"Her name's Rhodes. Sergeant Carolina Rhodes." He spoke with the exaggerated precision of a man well lubed.

"Oh, sergeant," Wash said, lifting his mug and swallowing a few generous mouthfuls of tea. "So, she didn't serve under you."

Once rolling, the captain did his bit to keep the conversation going. Maybe he felt he owed Rhodes her story told, if someone expressed an interest. "Did, for a time. I signed her on. Got promoted out. Got her own unit."

"Musta been good, then." He glanced at the woman shooting ocular daggers at him across the table, hid his shiver, and turned back to Mal. "Better 'n Zoe, even. 'Cause Zoe only ever made corporal."

"Nah, nah," Mal protested, waving a floppy hand. "See, Zoe, she jus' would never 'cept a pr'motion. Tried t' snatch 'er 'way from me, what, six 'r seven times."

"Offered me sergeant just twice, sir."

"'M sure you're misremembering that, Zoe."

"No, sir," she replied, tone flat and harsh.

Mal reached out for the bottle of "wine," refilled Zoe's glass, then his, then poured a large dollop into Wash's tea. Wash blinked, but picked up his mug and chugged back a slug, not bothering to hide his shudder as the liquor, harsh even diluted, burned down his throat. The captain smirked, and took a big swallow of his own drink, reacting no more than if it had been water.

"So, you had two warrior women in your command. 'S she as..." Quick, think of a neutral term! "..._tall_ as Zoe here?"

"Hell, no, she's a li'l bit of a thing, hardly come up t' my chin." The man's mouth tightened, muscles in his jaw bunching. Maybe he was recalling that now, in her chair, she came up to about his belly-button. He sucked in a deep breath and went on, "Real pistol, though. Di'n't take nothin' from no one. Huh, Zoe, Zoe, 'member that time those two fellahs from Dodge's company, uh, uh, Wat-Watson an'-"

"Wilson, sir. Wilson and Wu."

"Right, right." The captain began to snicker, knuckles of one hand coming up to his mouth in his habitual gesture, like he was kind of trying to hide the fact he was laughing. With his other hand, he topped off all their glasses again, impressing Wash by not spilling a drop. They all lifted their glasses and drank, Wash taking a tiny sip, barely wetting his lips. He didn't mind tying one on, mind you, not a bit. Get him into a cozy bar dirtside, with crew around him to get him back to the boat once he was blind, you bet. But he never got drunk in the Black, when he might need all his wits and reflexes to get his ship out of a tricky situation. But he could certainly sip sociably, and do his part to keep the conversation going.

Actually, Wilson and Wu had primed the pump, and turned out Mal could spin a pretty fair tale, getting Wash giggling and snorting into his tea in the first few minutes. Even Zoe's mouth bent into a smile. Then Mal made Zoe tell about the time she and Rhodes had gotten stuck behind enemy lines while scouting out some town, and had managed, after many narrow escapes, to make it back to their own unit by masquerading as animal-control officers, uniforms and truck and dogs and all. Zoe's dry as dust delivery as she described the absurd situation had both Wash and Mal clutching their aching stomachs.

"Wait, wait," Wash protested, holding up one hand, tears leaking out of his eyes, "you mean you impersonated a _dogcatcher_?" He turned to Mal, and, pointing a scandalized finger at Zoe, asked, "Captain, isn't that _illegal_?"

It wasn't that funny, but Mal was drunk enough that fart jokes would probably seem the epitome of great humor. He nearly fell out of his chair, howling with laughter. Zoe watched him a moment, then turned a look on Wash that might have held a hint of approval.

Once he was breathing again, Mal topped their drinks, and commenced on a series of Rhodes stories that got even Zoe grinning and chuckling. While there were a few squicky bits, what with the exploding heads and all, Wash would have listened gleefully to any manner of gruesomeness if he got to watch Zoe laugh at the same time. He wondered if she'd laugh at his stories if they contained flying body parts too.

Eventually, though, Mal slowed, then ground down to a near inarticulate mumble. Wash and Zoe watched as, head bobbing, the man's eyes closed, and his forehead sank lower and lower, finally meeting the tabletop with a dull clunk. Zoe let out a long, low breath, then heaved herself out of her chair, bracing herself a moment with her hands on the table, taking stock of her own level of inebriation. Her rapid blinking led Wash to believe she might be feeling it a tad.

"Can't leave 'im here," she declared.

"Well, I don't fancy trying to get him down into his bunk. How 'bout the couch?" Wash cocked a thumb at the lounge behind him.

She squinted suspiciously at him and he met her eyes blandly. "I got 'im," she ground out. She moved, with slow deliberation, to Mal's side, then bent, getting an arm across her shoulders. Wash moved smoothly to the man's other side, slinging one arm around his waist, gripping his upper arm in his other hand.

"I got him," Zoe snapped.

"Yeah, yeah, I see that," Wash muttered humbly, eyes averted, but not letting go. "I got just this one arm."

She grunted, but didn't object any further, and together they heaved Mal, a dead weight, up between them, and paced carefully, oh-so-carefully and slowly, to the lounge. When they flopped him down on the sofa, Wash carefully arranged him on his side, so that if he puked, he most likely wouldn't drown in it. Zoe tossed a blanket over him, one of the worn, ragged afghans Kaylee had scrounged up and draped around the lounge to make it more homey.

They studied him a moment, bludgeoned by alcohol into boneless relaxation, the lines of tension smoothed from his face. Then Wash said, "He looks so... peaceful." He glanced over at Zoe and went on, "He should be fine. I'll look in on him in a few hours, when I'm up doing a course check."

She nodded, eyes still on the captain. "Good," she replied briskly. She turned away, going to the table and meticulously collecting the glasses and the bottle. Wash, following, took up his mug, with a few inches of cold alcohol/tea mix left in the bottom. Okay, maybe he had a bit of a buzz on as well, just a tiny one. Mal was a relentless topper-offer. He waited to get to the sink, as Zoe washed and dried, with exaggerated care, the glasses, then tucked them and the near empty bottle away in a locker.

Him, he simply sluiced his mug out, then scampered pretty close along behind Zoe as she strode, with an overly-precise self-awareness, from the galley, up the steps, toward the helm. So he was a couple steps below her and a bit to her left when the toe of her boot glanced off the top stair. Without thought, he sprang forward, his right arm shooting out. Her fingers curled around his wrist, then her stumble carried them both over the top stair and into the corridor to their bunks and the bridge. There they came to a sudden halt.

Wash's heart stuttered, and he sure hoped she noticed that it was _her_ gripping _his_ arm, and not the other way around, that he hadn't actually touched her, that he just sorta happened to be there when she needed to steady herself. Like a railing. Or a wall. Or a chair. And you didn't get mad at a railing or a wall or a chair, and punch their lights out, for being handy. At least, he didn't. Maybe Zoe did.

She looked up from her hand, and into his face, studying his features with an intensity that made him distinctly uncomfortable. Plus, she hadn't yet let him go, and he had never stood this close to her for this long. He swallowed, licking his lips nervously, and a tiny smile curled one corner of her mouth. He'd never seen that expression before, not on her, not on anyone, and it kinda frightened him. She looked back down at her own hand, sliding it upward to squeeze his forearm.

"Strong arms," she noted.

"Yeah," he replied, with a shaky laugh, acutely aware of the power, both actual and figurative, in the fingers resting on his bare skin. "Most pilots have 'em, 'specially on the boats out here. Stiff guidance hydraulics, see, on most of 'em. Even the women pilots. One gal I know, her arms-"

"You ever use that mouth for anythin' but talkin', pilot?" She was still real close and she still hadn't lifted her hand.

"Uh, yeah. Eating. Yep. And drinking," he babbled, wishing he wasn't, knowing it annoyed her. "Sometimes breathing, if I, like, get a cold. I sing, too, on reque-"

He snapped his mouth shut as she lifted her hand from his arm, and twisted her fingers into the collar of his flight suit. She pulled him irresistibly toward her, and he figured he was about a nano-second from being clobbered. He froze in shock when her lips, not her fist, landed on his mouth. His mind blanked in a haze of white static. But while his brain might be wondering what the hell was going on, another organ of his, somewhat lower on his body, became convinced it had all the answers. Proximity alarms went off in his head, loudly, and he edged back infinitesimally, praying to gods he did not know that she wouldn't pull him in any closer.

She, in fact, to his relief, pushed him away, until their faces were a whole blessed six inches apart. Eyes narrowed, she informed him, "Y' weren't kissin' back."

"Well," he squeaked, then paused a second to roughly clear his throat. "Well, no, see, I, um, surprised, you, um-"

"Focus," she ordered, and closed in again.

He quickly lifted his hands, placing them on her hips, preventing her from pressing tight up against him. Figured she'd be a lot less offended by that, than by being nudged by the hardening impudence in his pants. Then, he tried to focus. Boy, howdy, did he ever, 'cause he realized that this was probably gonna be his one and only chance to get a kiss from this woman. And kissing was one of his absolutely favorite activities in the 'verse, right up there in the top ten. Top five, even. And the thought of kissing Zoe had been a delicious torment for months. The thought of kissing her and touching her and tasting-

'_Stop!_' he frantically ordered his fevered imagination. '_Focus! Here. Now._'

He closed his eyes, and fell into the kiss, reveling in the soft strength of her lips, parting his own slightly, inviting her tongue into his mouth. It accepted, pushing in past his teeth with a gentle yet firm insistence that triggered a faint tremor in his legs. The scent of her, woman and leather and an enigmatic spice, suffused his sinuses, made him dizzy, and, oh God, he hoped he wasn't about to pass out. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temples and his throat, even in his fingertips and other, more obvious extremities. The taste of the pungent liquor they'd been drinking mingled with what must be the flavor of Zoe, and he eagerly met her tongue with his, lusting for more. Her breath escaped in a tiny, almost soundless grunt, and she leaned into him, shoving him gently back against the corridor wall. Her breasts high and firm against his chest, she circled his neck with her arms. His hands, despite his very best intentions, slipped off her hips, reaching around to rest just above her buttocks. He moaned helplessly through his nose as she pressed her pelvis tight against his. No secret now – if it ever had been – where his wicked, wicked mind wallowed.

She pulled back from the kiss, hands stroking along the tops of his shoulders, fingers and thumbs kneading the dense muscle there. Dazed, panting heavily, he met her eyes, and she gave him a slow, heavy-lidded smile.

"Maybe we should take this up in my bunk," she suggested, voice soft, husky.

'_Yes_!'

The word echoed giddily through his brain – '_Yes, yes, yes!_' – the racket of it so loud, it took him a moment to catch up with what his mouth was saying.

"...don't think that's a good idea, Zoe." His hands were lifting off her backside, falling limply to his sides.

Whoa, whoa, wait! What was he saying? What was he doing? He quick ran the last few moments back, trying to access the less lust-addled portion of his memory...

Aw, _gos se_.

Brow furrowing, Zoe took a half-step back, dropping her hands from his shoulders. "You don't," she said flatly. She stared at him, waiting to see what he would say next.

"Well, I, you, see..." He stopped, took a deep, steadying breath, and said quietly, "Zoe, you're drunk."

"Drunk."

He went into burble mode, grinning a bit wildly. "Uh, tipsy, tiddly, tight, potted, plastered, pie-eyed, blotto, boiled-"

She cut him off, tone icy. "You're sayin' I'm so drunk, that I don't know what I'm doin'."

"I'm sayin', Zoe," he replied, softly, clearly, "that if you were sober, you would never have just invited me into your bunk."

She stared at him a long moment, with an expression, that even after months of close Zoe-observation, he'd never seen before and couldn't interpret.

Then she said tonelessly, "You're right." Turning away from him, she strode to the hatch of her bunk, triggered it open, and swiftly descended the ladder. The hatch hissed closed again, the click of the lock sounding loud in Wash's ears.


	2. Truth

In Vino Veritas

Part Two: ...Truth

* * *

He sagged, shoulder blades bumping against the wall behind him. Then, on automatic, he straightened and headed for the bridge. He'd been sitting in his chair for a few minutes before he really noticed where he was. Scooting forward a bit, he ran through the checklist tattooed on his brain, confirming they were where they were supposed to be, sucking fuel down at the most efficient rate, and that they weren't all about to croak 'cause life support had crashed.

Then he slumped back, hand coming up to rest on the center of his chest. He wondered if he were hemorrhaging internally. Kinda felt like that. Not that it was Zoe's fault. She'd simply been agreeing with him. The dinosaurs had nothing to say to him or each other, standing around on the helm like so many lumps of plastic. He did turn the T-Rex to look away from him. He'd never noticed before, how his face seemed frozen in an expression of gape-jawed, incredulous disbelief.

Well, he couldn't believe it either.

Article of Disbelief, the First: That Zoe, even inebriated, had invited him into her bed.

Article of Disbelief, the Second: That he had declined the invitation.

The first was utterly incomprehensible to him. How a person could go from an icy, hostile stare to a hot, demanding tongue in a couple short hours escaped him. Especially as those stares had formed the bulk of the communication between them for the past few months.

Maybe... Maybe it was that Sex/Death thing. Some people – lots of people, actually - found facing grief, death, danger kicked their libido into action. Their psyche fought against destruction, against annihilation. Made a hell of a lot of sense to him. Now, while Zoe and Mal hadn't (as far as he knew) faced actual death and/or combat earlier that day, Zoe had just come face to face with the physical destruction of a friend, a comrade. A woman, according to the stories, filled with vibrant life, now enduring a fate perhaps worse than death. Plus, she'd just spent quite a bit of time pulling up memories rife with narrow escapes and explosive decapitations. Wacky fun.

Maybe that, along with the loosening effect of alcohol, sparked her into committing an otherwise unthinkable act. And, blah, blah, blah, blahdy, blah, because there was the very distinct possibility that he wallowed in complete ignorance of anything to do with what went on behind those lovely, dark, hooded eyes. That he would never understand what motivated her. So. A mystery. But not, in the end, unusual, because Zoe equaled mystery to him from day one anyhow.

The second article... He sighed, dropping his gaze to his lap. Speaking of sex and death. He wondered if his own libido had just suffered permanent annihilation, or if it was just stunned, and might come out of shock in, oh, the next decade or so. Might be better, easier, if he'd just become some kind of psychological eunuch. Wouldn't bet that Zoe wouldn't get around to making him one in fact. Didn't imagine she had much experience in being turned down. He really hoped violence did not prove to be her coping mechanism.

Kinda a weird feeling – torn, fragmented – to have one part of himself (that unrepentant horn-dog now whimpering in anguish in his hind-brain) reeling with astonishment, while at the same time he knew exactly why he'd passed on Zoe's pass. Wasn't exactly because she'd had a few drinks. While he preferred sex while sober, it wasn't as if he'd never crawled into bed with a tipsy partner before, although he usually tended to be equally squiffed. Happened many a time, actually, given he usually struck up his acquaintances in dockside bars. But many of those who took him to bed (or wherever) gave him their Cortex address, and said he should wave next time he lit down in their neck of the 'verse. So, lots of repeats, yeah, and those tended to be sober, and better for it. But even with those frequently alcoholically lubricated first (or only) times, so far as he knew, no one had ever regretted spending a few hours of play-time with him. No one ever thought the worst of themselves for having exchanged a little pleasure with him.

Zoe would have.

Oh, yeah. Would she ever. She'd've been disgusted with herself. Chances were she'd be... upset, simply for tendering her invitation. But to wake up tomorrow, not only no longer under the influence, but hungover, with him, of all people, sprawled in her bed? Mm, no, an unpleasant scenario to visualize, for all concerned. (Fact was, visualizing this scene agitated him so greatly, he had to stand up, grab three random dinosaurs off the helm, and juggle them like goslings, until he regained a certain measure of calm.)

Upon re-seating himself, something snapped into place, something he hadn't thought about much, if ever, before. It was important to him, that the folks who allowed him to connect with them in an intimate way, if only on a physical level, obtain joy from that connection. He also realized that the non-horn-dog part of himself had understood, that while he would have given Zoe physical release (and he knew he would have, just as he knew he would guide _Serenity_ safely to her next port of call), that he would not have been able to give her joy. _That_ would take someone she respected. Someone she could wake up next to without feeling like she had made a terrible mistake. Someone, in other words, not him.

The bridge lights dimmed, just as the lights throughout the public spaces all over the ship did. Ship's night. In six hours, they'd brighten again, signaling the dawn of a new day. A low chime sounded, one he'd programed himself, playing both here and in his bunk, letting him know it was officially time for him to do a course check. Not that, tonight, he needed the reminder, as he'd been absently watching the co-ordinate readings shift, where they were now becoming closer to those of where they were going. But, he recalled his promise to Zoe, to look in on the captain the next time he did a course check. And that was now, so he got up and headed aft, toward the galley. Maybe this time he _would_ get a roll. And an unadulterated cup of tea.

He entered the galley, and found Kaylee awake, standing in the kitchen, fingers of one hand on her lips as she gazed with wide, concerned eyes at the man snoring gently on the couch in the lounge. She looked over at Wash as he came in, and lowered her hand to whisper loudly, "Is the capt'n okay?"

With a little stab of guilt, Wash moved swiftly to her side. It had slipped his mind, that, according to Jayne, Mal had made her cry earlier that day. "He's fine, Kaylee, just sleeping off a bender. Zoe and I didn't think we could get him safely down into his bunk." He peered into her face, noting the tear stains on her grubby cheeks. "Whatcha doin' up? Isn't it time for all good little mechanics to be in bed?"

She ignored his query, and, brow furrowing, said, "A bender? Cap don't usually drink all that much." She turned her fearful gaze onto Wash. "Did- did somethin' bad happen dirtside? He was- was all crotchety an' snappish when he come back on." Her eyes suddenly glittered with tears, as she recalled the captain's harsh words to her. Wash felt an abrupt flare of anger. Didn't matter how out of sorts Mal was, he had no right to lash out at Kaylee, of all people. He put an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her against his side. She sighed, leaning her head on his shoulder, grateful for the comforting gesture.

"Nothing bad happened, really, but he ran into someone he knew in the War. She'd been badly injured. I think he feels responsible for some reason, maybe he talked her into joining." He shook her gently. "But he shouldn't have snapped at you. That just makes him a low-down, no-account _huen_ _dahn_."

"Never yelled at me b'fore. Was 'fraid he was gonna put me off the ship," she confessed in a small voice.

"Aw, no, he'd never do that, Kaylee," he assured her earnestly. "Knows darn well you're the only reason _Serenity_ soars the way she does. In fact," and he raised one finger, wagging it for emphasis, "if he had to make the choice between putting you or his left nut off the ship, that nut would be out the airlock so fast, it'd make your head spin."

"You." Grinning, she bumped him with her hip, then yawned enormously, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Bed. Go," Wash ordered, finger now pointing commandingly toward their bunks.

"Yessir, bossy pilot, sir. See ya in the mornin'."

He watched her leave, her exhaustion evident in her meandering path to and up the steps to their bunks. Hopefully he'd dispelled her concerns about being chucked off the ship. He glared at the man sleeping it off on the couch, then grinned wickedly. Figured Kaylee'd be getting a sort of sideways revenge in a few hours, when the guy woke up with the skull-cracking hangover her engine brew generated.

Wash took the kettle from the stove to fill it at the tap, then cranked the heat up under it. Collecting his tea things, he let his mind wander around the cheering subject of their mechanic, keeping at bay the other, less uplifting topic clamoring for his attention. Mal would have to be the type of fool Wash knew he wasn't to get rid of Kaylee. Her kind of talent was one in a million. _Ai ya_, one in a billion. The girl had been on board about three months now, and he thought they were shaping up into a pretty good tech team.

Bester had been a disaster. It's hard to be a hot-shot pilot when your mechanic fecklessly allows your engines to suddenly conk out. Actually, that's when you desperately _need_ to be a hot-shot pilot, to land a boat that has 60 power from one pod and _maybe_ 10 from the other. He'd thought Mal, in the co-pilot's chair, was gonna spew his lunch all over the helm, what with all that spinning. Which would have been annoying, as flying vomit plays merry havoc when it gets into the controls, not to mention the pilot's eyes. Didn't seem to bother Zoe much, though that could have been 'cause she'd been pretty busy hanging onto the back of Mal's chair. However, the dust cloud from their less-than-smooth, yet highly successful landing, was still billowing up around them, when she announced coolly, "I'll be in my bunk," and strode from the bridge. Whatever she needed to do in her bunk – deal with an outraged stomach, change certain items of clothing, floss her teeth, whatever – he didn't know. But she was out and on top of checking Serenity's undercarriage for damage within 10 minutes. Meanwhile, he was tracking down whatever was spilling the tangy scent of ozone onto the bridge, while Mal was in the engine room, pinning Bester's ears back. The guy insisted everything would be shiny, that it wasn't his fault, and that he would have them fit to fly in just a few days.

That landing proved to be more successful than in having a more or less intact ship at the end of it. Turned out this particular ball of dust was the felicitous birthplace of Kaywinnit Lee Frye. Two weeks later, she was on, Bester was off, and _Serenity_ began to truly spread her wings.

And, special bonus for him. It had been Kaylee that'd clued him into the whole mustache situation. She'd been a month on the boat, and they lay side by side on their backs, on the bridge, under the nav panel, elbow deep in its guts. They'd engaged mostly in shop talk up to that point, companionable enough, but not very personal, when Kaylee volunteered, "Reckon m' daddy was wrong 'bout you."

"Your daddy?" Wash murmured absently, trying to work a stubborn screw loose. Had barely met him, just shook hands and joshed a bit, when the guy came round to check out the ship his little girl wanted to fly away in. Seemed a good man, though, the honest, cheerful sort that would produce a kid like Kaylee.

"Yup. Tol' me t' keep an eye on ya. That y' was a slick flyboy, an' like t' talk me into all kindsa trouble."

"He said I was '_slick_?'" Ow. Not the kind of first impression he hoped to make. Ever. Dashing, maybe, or, or a man of the 'verse. But not slick.

"Mm-hm. But he di'n't get a chance t' know ya better, like me, so now I know it ain't so. Tol' him so too, in m' last wave home. Tol' 'im you was a real nice guy what tol' real funny stories an' collected Earth-That-Was dinosaur toys."

"Maybe you should have left out the bit about the dinosaurs."

"Nah, they're sweet! Reckon he'd see any fellah what collected 'em were nice, not, y' know, slick."

"Slick."

"Think it's the mustache." She said this in a sort of off-hand way, as if it were an idle comment, as she checked the leads in her hand for corrosion.

"The mu- What? Why?" He resisted the anxious impulse to twiddle with the luxuriant growth on his upper lip.

"Dunno, really. But. Kinda reminds me o' this fellah back home, what sold used vehicles; mules an' groundcars an' trucks an' th' like. Hold that there, will ya? Could talk the back leg offa dog. Chances were, anythin' he sold would show up in m' daddy's shop b'fore too long. Hadda mustache lot like yours. But black, 'cuz his hair was, y' know, black. 'Ventually got run outta town, fer cheatin' one too many times." Tongue poking out the side of her mouth, she threaded the wire back into place, then speculated, "Mebbe y' reminded Daddy o' him too."

"Huh." Slick. Like a used mule salesman.

Casually, Kaylee added, "Know Zoe don't like it."

"She don't, uh, doesn't?" The screw-driver slipped and sparks flew. "Ow!"

"Nope," she replied, calmly getting the damper over the spitting contact point. "She gets this little... flinchin' look in her eyes when she looks at it."

"I thought she was looking at my whole face, and getting that flinching look."

"Nuh-uh. Ya do this thing." She brought her hand to her face, and languorously stroked her upper lip, leaving behind, incidentally, a grimy mustache of her own. Wash recognized it as one of his habitual gestures, and winced. "An' that's when she looks kinda, kinda..."

"Disgusted." He knew the expression well.

Kaylee made a non-committal humming sound, but didn't disagree. "Some gals just don't like 'em, y' know," she commiserated. "Mustaches an' beards. Me?" She giggled. "I kinda like th' way they tickle. C'n y' pass me the oscilloscope?"

He did, and they worked for some time in silence as he ruminated on this new information. He'd been getting exactly nowhere with Zoe. If the mustache, despite the months it had taken him to sprout it, was actually a detriment, rather than the manly advantage he'd presumed it to be...

"Tell ya what," he chirped cheerfully. "If you get rid of your mustache, I'll get rid of mine."

"My what?" The young woman nearly dropped the oscilloscope.

Grinning, Wash reached out, running his thumb over her upper lip, then holding it up to display the smudge. Laughing, Kaylee had sung out, "It's a deal!"

The whistle of the kettle brought him back to the present, and he left off wool-gathering and made himself a mug of tea. Warm cup in one hand and a fresh roll in the other, he went through the lounge on his way forward, checking on Mal. His breath was deep, regular, and he showed no signs of gastric distress. Looked like there was rest for the wicked after all. Or at least for the very naughty.

Wash paused by the hatch to his own bunk, thinking maybe he should really lie down and try to get some sleep. He snorted, a little burst of self-mocking laughter. Yeah, right. Like his brain would actually allow him the peace he needed to drop off. More likely, it would spin out, complete with all the tormenting sensory details, what he _could_ be doing right now, this very moment, in Zoe's bed, if only he could keep his gorram mouth shut. He slouched the rest of the way back up to the bridge, and snuggled into the cradle of his chair. Sipping his tea and nibbling his roll, he stared out at the stars, letting their light and the empty Black between them wipe the too busy thoughts from his mind.

He must have dozed, because the lights had shifted to ship's day the next time he lifted his head to scan his control boards. He checked the time, and saw that it must have been the change in the light that roused him. Just dawn. Behind him, down the corridor, he heard the hiss of a bunk hatch opening. The fact that he could hear the tread on the deck, heading toward the galley, let him know that it was Jayne, not Zoe.

Wash stood, stretched, rolling his head, joints in his shoulders and neck popping. Shaking out his arms and legs, he collected his tea mug, and headed for his bunk. There, he stripped, then shaved at his sink, sluicing his face in the bitterly cold tap water. He ran a cloth with cleansing gel over the rest of his body, shivering as the icy substance evaporated. He wished he were scheduled for a shower today, rather than tomorrow. He could really use the comforting, refreshing spray of hot water after last night. The sharp, fresh odors of his shaving cream and the gel helped though, making him feel more alert. He dressed in clean briefs, tank, and flight suit. He grabbed his mug, then, half way up the ladder out, one hand and both feet on the rungs, hung there and dithered.

He had no idea how to face this day. How to face Zoe. Obviously, given they were stuck together on a mid-sized transport, they'd run into each other at some point. Chances were she'd just be her usual cool, controlled, collected self. Chances were that she wouldn't simply slap him silly the next time they, inevitably, met. No. She had too much grace under fire to do anything that disruptive to ship discipline. Chances were, she'd treat him exactly as she had for the past six months. So, if he could keep _his_ calm, no one would ever know anything awkward had passed between them last night...

_Tzao gao_.

He was toast. His best bet was to hide out on the bridge as much as possible. To keep his head down at those family-style dinners the captain insisted on having, and to get back to the bridge or into his bunk as quick as he could. Because he knew he couldn't bluff worth beans. That he couldn't keep anything he felt strongly off his face. Even if he manged to keep his expressions neutral, his fair skin worked like a barometer, revealing to any that cared to read it how strongly any particular situation affected him. They might not know _how_ it affected him, but they would surely know that it did. That had been, actually, one of the main reasons he'd grown that mustache in the first place. It distracted. It concealed.

Well, he'd set that shield down. And he had to keep _Serenity_ flying true no matter the yow-yow he and Zoe had tangled themselves in. And, when he got down to it, he knew that Zoe worked under the same paradigm, and that she would leave him free to do his job, as long as he left her to do the same. Sucking in a deep breath, he bravely clambered the rest of his way out of his bunk. The earthy aroma of Jayne's potent coffee/chicory brew wafted past his face as he stepped into the corridor, and he trotted forward quickly to claim his fair share.

Jayne stood at the kitchen counter, much as he'd done the night before, now noisily slurping down piping hot coffee rather than whiskey. Wash joined him, gazing with him into the lounge, at what appeared to be a heap of tattered afghans piled on the couch. The bundle shifted, snorted, then uttered a long, agonized groan. Wash reached for the coffee pot, hastily pouring himself a mug with one hand, while opening a cupboard to grab a handful of wrapped protein bars with the other. Jayne was right there with him.

"Seen Zoe yet?" Wash asked. A stream of filthy, guttural Chinese polluted the galley's air.

"Nuh-uh," Jayne replied, shaking his head, shoving protein bars into his pockets.

"Might be a good day to, I don't know, um, _hide_?" Wash suggested, his alarm growing as the bundle on the couch began to thrash around. Did alcohol poisoning bring on seizures?

"Uh-huh," the gunman agreed, then bolted for the steps to the cargo bay. Wash turned the heat under the coffee pot to 'warm,' figuring both Mal and Zoe would be more appeased by hot caffeine, rather than cold or scorched. Then he too displayed the better part of valor and scampered for the bridge.

Turned out to be real easy to avoid Zoe that day. Turned out he wasn't the only one feeling a need to hide as the captain nursed a hangover of epic proportions. Entire crew took cover in their native habitats, Wash on the bridge, Kaylee in the engine room, Jayne in the cargo bay, lifting weights, Zoe just somewhere not near Mal, sweating the toxins out of her own system. All of them being as quiet as quiet could be. Was impossible to avoid the man entirely, as he snarled his way around his ship. But it gave him less cause to chew a guy's leg off if he found him at his post, at least looking like he was busy. But it was a long day. Even as late as dinner-time, Mal continued to indulge the captainy privilege of spreading his pain around.

In a way, the strained atmosphere around the table was a good thing. Only Jayne demonstrated any kind of appetite, though even his chewing seemed a bit subdued. No doubt the rest of the crew would attribute Wash's silence and his inability to lift his eyes from his plate to Mal's foul mood. And not to the woman sitting, serene, unreadable, across the table from him.

The woman sitting next to him shifted uneasily, leaning slightly away from the captain as he rolled a crimson tinted eye in her direction. "Kaylee, y' got that thing with the fuel line worked out yet?"

"Mostly, Capt'n," she answered timidly. "Need to be on the ground, engines off, fer me to clear-"

"It's slowin' us way down, Kaylee. Got folks to meet, don't 'preciate tardiness."

Wash cleared his throat, gaining Mal's attention. "Shouldn't be a problem, Captain," he offered, hoping to take the heat off Kaylee. "Might be an hour or so behind schedule, but only that. See, I managed to grab a boost when we passed by-"

"Don't reckon 'm interested nor impressed, Washburne," Mal growled, bloodshot eye now glaring balefully at his pilot. "Doin' your job ain't no cause to be tootin' your own horn."

"I wasn't- I didn't mean-"

"Or you thinkin' as y' ain't gettin' anywheres with my first mate, y' ll have a go at my mechanic? Figure tryin' t' turn her head with tales of piloty goodness? Noticed you been hangin' 'round her maybe more 'n need be."

Kaylee set her glass down with a loud rap, earning a wince from Mal, and sat up straight in her seat. Eyes bright, cheeks flushed, she pointed a finger him, and snapped out, "The reason he's been 'hangin' 'round' me, Capt'n, is 'cuz we're workin' our _pigus_ off gettin' this here boat of yours inta some kinda shape."

The captain reared back in his chair, his face wearing the shock of a hound dog suddenly confronted by a tiny kitten, all puffed up, spitting and hissing a challenge.

Kaylee went on, now waving the accusatory finger. "He ain't never said nor done a single thing that were disrespectful 'r mean. Wash is just a plain downright nice fellah. Which is more 'n I c'n say fer a certain cranky ol' captain I could mention."

"Cranky old-"

"Cranky, sir," Zoe broke in.

Mal turned, blinking his astonishment at this surprise attack on his left flank.

"Cranky, crotchety, cross," she went on, expression completely deadpan. "Ornery, obnoxious, obstreperous."

"Ob- ob-" Mal sputtered.

"I gotta go," Wash choked out, standing, grabbing his plate and glass. "Gotta go do, do piloty things. Steer." He beat a hasty retreat, managing to keep his hysterical laughter down to strangled snorts until he got to the bridge, and closed the hatch securely behind him. Then he giggled, guffawed, gargled with glee, until his sides ached. _Lao tyen yeh_, that woman was hilarious.

An hour or so later, after checking to see if the coast was clear, he sneaked back out, dirty dishes in hand, down to the kitchen to wash, dry, and put them away. Kinda creepy, how quiet the ship was. Usually, late evenings, the crew gravitated to the lounge, to chat, snipe, play cards, whatever. Seemed though, just like him, folks had decided to keep their heads down a while longer. He went back up to the bridge, and spent some time arranging the dinosaurs into artful dioramas.

"Pilot."

"_Nnyah!_" Wash started, dinosaurs scattering over the controls. Gorramit, the woman made no more noise than a ghost. He did a quick scan, making sure none of the dinos had bumped up against a switch or toggle they shouldn't have. All was well. Then he stood, turning to face where Zoe's voice had come from, maybe even taking a tiny step back, so that more of the chair was between him and her. Then he looked at her, the dark, supple, dangerous elegance of her, and his heart skipped a beat. God, even with the thrashing it had taken the night before, it still leapt with joy at the sight of her. Yep, he was a goner.

"Need to talk to you."

This did not bode well. He'd hoped they could just let the night before... vanish. That they could go back to the status quo, as frustrating as that was, him with the never-hopeless yearning, her with the cool standoffishness. But, if she wanted to talk to him, by golly, they were gonna talk. Wasn't like he had much choice. And talking was, in the end, probably less painful than punching. He shrugged, arms flapping limply at his sides, and said, "Okay. Let's talk."

She collected his eyes with hers, then shot a sideways glance at the co-pilot's chair, tilting one hand toward it. Almost like she was asking permission to sit in it. He stood there a couple seconds, not sure he was reading her right, but she waited patiently, allowing the penny to drop. She wanted a real, sit-down conversation.

"Oh, sure," he blurted. "Please, sit down."

She did, her face calm, inscrutable. He took his own seat, feeling spastic and awkward next to her easy grace.

She studied him a moment, then asked softly, "You thinkin' 'bout leavin' the ship?"

"No!" Alarm popped the word explosively from his mouth. His right hand reached out, possessively grasping the yoke in front of him. "No," he repeated, a little more quietly, his thumb moving in a caressing circle on the grip. "I mean, not on my own initiative. It's Mal's boat, though, and he can put me off whenever he pleases." He shot her a quick, wary glance, quirking his mouth into a one-sided half-smile. "Though I hope it'd be _on_ a planet, and not in between."

"Good to hear," Zoe replied, dipping her head in a single nod. "And, far as I know, he doesn't have any plans to put you off, on or in between."

"Oh. Good. That's good." She thought it was good he wasn't thinking about leaving..?

"'Bout last night."

Okay, here it came, her clearly and firmly putting him in his place. He really didn't want to hear it. Maybe it would hurt a little less if he said it himself. He made himself look her in the eyes, and said softly, "It's all right, Zoe. I know it was just the drink talkin'. Last night didn't mean anything, doesn't change anything."

At least, he hoped it didn't change anything, that she hadn't decided she wasn't going to be able to endure looking at his face anymore. Although, she _had_ just indicated that she thought it was a good thing that he didn't intend to jump ship...

Her brow furrowed slightly as she took in what he'd just said. With a little shake of her head, she replied, "Actually, it meant a lot."

Wash felt his mouth open, but he really didn't know how to respond to that. He managed a frightfully intelligent, "Oh."

"Yeah. Both what you did for the captain, getting him to talk, to laugh. And then... later." She actually dropped her eyes for an instant before meeting his gaze again, and continuing, "Wanna apologize for that. I was way outta line."

Wash gaped, and he stared at her, blinking rapidly. Okay, he had a powerful imagination, but it would never have come up those words coming out of Zoe's mouth. "Um, no, I mean, yes," he stammered. "I mean, it's okay."

"No, it wasn't. I was takin' advantage, and I knew full well I was." Her lips curled in a smile, a delighted one. And it was aimed straight at him. "Y' surprised me, Wash. Never woulda believed you could turn me down, as hard as you've been hankerin', ever since you first stepped on board."

Wash! She had called him Wash! And she was... smiling. At him. Because of him.

"I, uh. _Ai ya_." He could feel his cheeks burning, knew they were bright red. A little spurt of nervous chuckles escaped him, and grinning sheepishly, he asked, "I didn't drool, did I? I hate it when I drool."

His astonishment grew even further, as she chuckled herself, and shook her head. "No. Didn't notice that you sprang any leaks."

"Good, good," he replied, nodding his satisfaction. "It's a sad day when a grown man loses control of his bodily fluids."

She chuckled again, then, still smiling, brought the conversation back on track. "And, what you said, about it bein' the drink talkin'. Thing 'bout bein' drunk. Sometimes you do and say things that you wanna do and say when you're sober, but won't let yourself."

"Uh..." He'd heard that before. But in his experience, he behaved exactly like he did when he was sober, just louder. And with more singing and falling down. But he simply nodded, because this conversation was going in a fascinating direction, and he didn't want to interrupt the flow.

But Zoe had apparently said her piece. She put her hands on her thighs and levered herself out of her seat. He stood as well, automatically. "Anyhow," she said, all brisk business. "How soon 'til we hit landfall?"

"Landfall? Oh, um." He glanced down at the nav readings. "'Bout sixteen hours."

"Good." She started for the hatch, then stopped, turned back to face him. "Y' like Moroccan food?"

"Do I-" _Ai ya_, this was one twisty road he found himself on. "Well, I pretty much like food food. Anything with, you know, food in it."

"So, there's this place I know, dockside. Serves great old-style Moroccan food. Can I buy you dinner?"

"I, um, sure." He nodded, found his head bobbing with growing enthusiasm as he realized she'd actually just asked him out on a date. "Sure, yeah, that would be great. Fantastic!"

She tilted her head a bit, narrowed her eyes, as she admitted one possible drawback to where she intended to take him. "One thing 'bout the place though. Owner's a devout Muslim. So, he runs a dry establishment. 'S not a problem for you, is it?"

"Uh, no, 'course not." 'Course it wasn't a problem. She could take him anywhere, serve him anything, so long as he got to sit next to her while he ate it.

"Good." She nodded her satisfaction. "And that way, next time, you can be sure."

"Sure?" he repeated, puzzled.

"Yeah," she replied, with a wicked smile. "That the next time I ask ya, I'll be sober."


End file.
